Work Text:
Jack Abbot feels a little too old to have a silly workplace crush, but Samira Mohan makes it impossible not to. She comes into her night shifts in a big, navy blue work jacket that makes her brown skin glow, even under the harsh fluorescent lights. Coming in from the snow, a few white snowflakes caught on the halo of her curls all wrapped up in her braid, she looks like an angel.
Samira steps through the door, pursing her lips, shaking off the snow and shivering, and for a heartbeat, the fluorescent hum of the emergency department fades. Every flake clinging to her braid and loose curls glitters like tiny stars, and her brown eyes catch the lurid white light in a way that makes her seem luminous. Even at the beginning of a big snowstorm nightshift, she makes everything seem impossibly soft and bright.
“Dr. Abbot,” she greets him, smiling softly. She’s clutching a beige paper cup close to her body to keep herself warm while she stuffs her backpack in her locker. Somehow, she makes black scrubs and a gray long sleeve look adorable. He flashes a grin up at her fondly while he ties his sneaker laces. Jack stands to follow her to the nurses’ station, trailing a little bit like a lovesick puppy.
“Glad you made it safe in the storm, Dr. Mohan. It doesn’t look so good out there.” Jack says, leaning onto the desk while she sits at the computer. She keeps reaching for her cup and then putting it back down.
“Yeah, it’s really bad. My boyfriend drove me in today,” Samira mumbles, eventually taking a sip of her drink and grimacing. She gets this frown on her face where one side of her lip goes lower than the other. She almost even shakes her head, like she’s trying to get rid of the taste in her mouth. Almost involuntarily, her pink tongue slips out of her mouth and over her plush lips to catch a drop.
“That’s nice,” he says, quickly steering the conversation to a topic that doesn't make his stomach turn. “What are you drinkin’ today?” Whatever it is, she obviously hates it.
She keeps that gorgeous little frown on her face as she spits out, “Some latte my boyfriend thought I would like? I hate coffee, it’s so bitter and gross no matter how much sugar or milk or whatever is in here.”
Jack scoffs. How can her boyfriend not know her drink order, much less the fact that she hates coffee? “Don’t you drink a hot vanilla chai?” He tilts his head the other way, fiddling with his dog tags.
She blinks up at him, soft lashes with snow still melting on them. “Yeah, with extra cinnamon.”
“I know.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like he’s not watching how she’s cradling the cup in both hands, trying to keep herself warm or how she blows on it twice before every sip to have steam rise up into her face.
She keeps looking at him, like she’s studying a patient. Something warm replaces that crooked little frown. “You remembered?”
“‘Course I did,” he says, a little gruffer than he means to. He straightens up and taps the table a little anxiously, feeling a little exposed.
Samira just smiles down at the offending latte. “He just grabbed whatever was first on the menu,” she says, trying to keep it light.
Jack nods once. Too tight. “Yeah.”
He clears his throat before looking up at the board. He hates feeling like he’s shown too much of his hand. “Trauma one’s probably gonna get busy if the roads keep icing over.”
Samira coughs slightly before looking back to the computer. “Yeah. Um. I’ll see you out there, cowboy,” she jokes. Despite himself, he smiles back at her, watching her grimace at another sip of coffee.
The next day before their night shift, Jack stops at his coffee shop to get his usual—a hot black coffee with two sugars—when he also orders a large hot vanilla chai with extra cinnamon. He walks into work with the two drinks in hand, trying to look casual while very obviously scanning the department for Samira.
She’s already at the nurses’ station, jacket off, her hair in a purple claw clip today. Jack loves the way her dark curls fly out from behind her head. Her fingers look pink from the cold. He clenches his fingers around his coffee before setting her cup down.
“I, uh– they made this by accident,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck absently. “Figured you’d drink it before it goes to waste.” Samira looks up at him, eyebrows raised, then down at the cup.
“Vanilla chai,” she reads softly. “Extra cinnamon.”
He shrugs, staring very intently at the board behind her. “Yeah. Weird coincidence.” It takes all of his willpower to not look at her.
“Right,” she says. Samira wraps both hands around the cup immediately, claiming it. She blows into the lid and steam curls up into her face, the scent of cardamom filling the air near her. Jack mumbles something about seeing her on the floor and forces himself to walk away towards Ellis, but his sight lingers on her.
She closes her eyes for just a second before taking a careful sip. And fuck, she smiles. Not big or loud or showing teeth, just this small, satisfied curve of her rosy lips and the tension draining from her shoulders. He hears this little hum she makes in the back of her throat like she didn’t even mean to let it out. It rumbles somewhere dangerous in Jack’s chest.
Whoever loves her should know the shape of her mouth when she’s happy, and make it their life’s mission to make sure it never disappears. He takes a long sip of his own coffee, burning his tongue and turning it to sandpaper.
Ellis is saying something about a rollover on I-79, but Jack barely hears her. His eyes keep flicking back to the nurses’ station without meaning to. Samira is still holding the cup in both hands. She’s not even drinking it now, just warming herself with it, chin tucked down and rosy lips pursed as she looks at the computer. Every few seconds she takes another careful sip, like she’s savoring it.
They keep this little routine up– Jack sliding the chai over towards her while she dumps out that stupid latte. He doesn’t even make excuses for it anymore, and she always smiles up at him with those big brown doe eyes and says, “thank you,” so politely, in this soft little voice that feels like a knife in between his ribs. He fucking craves it.
A week or two later, after the snow has finally calmed down and the ice has started, Samira steps out into the ambulance bay about 2 hours before their shift is supposed to end after typing furiously at her phone for the past 10 minutes. Jack, quietly craning his head, hears snippets of her phone call.
“What do you mean?” She asks quietly into her phone. “But you told me you would pick me up this morning. I thought we were going to grab breakfast together after my shift?” A pause. Her voice is far meeker than he’d like.
“No, I… I know-” She’s being interrupted by whoever is on the other end. A dumb move, he thinks. “Garrett, I told you, the differential for nights is a lot better, it’s-” Another interruption. She sighs. “It’s not that simple. I’ll get off nights when I can, but I really need the money if you want to move in together.”
She stops trying to defend herself, just quiet ‘yeahs’ and ‘I understands’ coming out of her, defeated. “Okay. No, it’s fine. I’ll take the bus home.” The bus? Absolutely not. “Yeah. I’ll see you later.” Samira has hung up. Jack goes back to his charting, pretending he’s been focused the whole time. He ignores the way Shen rolls his eyes.
Jack keeps his eyes on the chart in front of him, but the words all seem to blur together. He finds it hard to reconcile the woman who had spoken so meekly on the phone, letting herself be treated like an afterthought, with the doctor he has watched close thoracotomies without flinching, the doctor who stays an extra two hours to comfort families no one else has time for, the doctor who can rattle off differential diagnosis like a grocery list. A woman like that deserves a boyfriend who worships her.
He’d gladly clear the highway with his bare hands if she asked him to. Instead, Garrett interrupts her and talks over her, not appreciating the fact that he gets to have the most talented and smartest angel in the state of Pennsylvania in his bed whenever he wants. Jack can’t help but think that he could be so much better for her. He knows her. Hell, he knows his girl’s worth more than half the assholes walking around thinking they’re hot shit.
The thought of her folding herself into someone else’s life—someone who doesn’t even know her schedule, doesn’t know she hates coffee—makes his jaw tighten. She’s too brilliant, too sharp, too soft and cold to have to make any concessions. Jack lets himself imagine picking her up before she even asks. Car warm, breakfast already waiting, opening the door for her, her backpack already in the car. Jack cannot believe someone wouldn’t bend over backwards for her. Meanwhile Garrett is comfortable in the assumption that she’ll always accommodate him.
Samira walking back in, shaking off the cold, pulls him out of his fantasy. He looks over at her, trying to be casual.
“Everything okay?” Jack asks, voice a little tight and concerned.
Samira shrugs, seeming unbothered if not for the way she tugs her sleeves over her hands. He bets Garrett wouldn't pick up on the little details like that. “Yeah, I just have to take the bus. My boyfriend is too tired to pick me up.” Jack scoffs. Too tired? What a fucking asshole.
“The bus?” His jaw flexes.
She shrugs again, smaller this time. “It’s fine.”
Jack shakes his head. “No, it isn’t. In this weather?” he says, like he genuinely can’t understand it. “C’mon, kid.”
“It’s fine.”
He can't understand why she's trying to convince herself. It's clearly not fine, and he tells her as much.
She bristles a little, glares at him. She looks so fucking cute. “Why do you care?”
Jack softens his expression. “Because you’re exhausted,” he says evenly. “Because you haven’t eaten since midnight. Because you’re shivering.”
She crosses her arms, covering her goosebumps.
“And because,” he adds, “if I was in charge of picking you up at seven, I’d roll in at six thirty on the nose. Any man worth his salt would’ve been bustin’ his ass to get here before you even mentioned it.” Jack doesn’t want to outright insult her boyfriend in front of her, no matter how much of an idiot he is. He’s trying not to push or gloat.
He digs a protein bar out of his pocket and puts it in her hands. “Eat that before you pass out on me, sweetheart. I’ll drive you home after the shift.” Jack lets his hand stay on hers—so cold—for just a second before smiling at her sweetly. He wants to warm her up himself.
Samira flushes deeper, not just from the cold, but she nods at him. “Thank you, Jack.” She’s so sweet. His name sounds so good coming out of her mouth.
He shakes his head. “No need to thank me, just doing my duty.” She’s studying him now, and he wishes he could read her mind.
The parking lot is nearly empty when they leave. The sky is still indigo, the first hint of sunrise barely touching the horizon. Jack carries her backpack for her and opens her door for her. The heater in Jack’s truck hums softly, warm air pushing against the cold that follows her inside. Jack hands her his phone, silently asking for her address and some music she wants to listen to.
For the first few minutes they sit in silence, just listening to the music. Samira is staring out the window, watching the streetlights blur past in golden streaks.
Jack clears his throat. “Hey.”
She glances over at him.
“I didn’t mean to come down on you like that earlier.”
Her dark brows knit together. “You didn’t, though.”
“I did.” He keeps his eyes on the road. “Wasn’t my place.”
Samira watches him for a second, surprised by the softness in his tone. Most men she knows would double down, rather than apologizing.
“It just…” he exhales. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. Or defend him.” Her fingers are twisting in the sleeve of her navy jacket.
“I know,” she says quietly. “But you were right.”
That makes him look at her, but she’s avoiding eye contact. Still watching the road.
“I’m just…” She swallows. “I’m a little tired of not being a priority.”
He doesn’t want to push, but… “Do you want to break up with him?”
She sighs. “I don’t know… I guess… I just feel like I won’t get anyone else.” Jack can hear his heart break in two. His poor, beautiful, smart girl doesn’t feel worthy. His hand drifts a little toward hers, but stops short. He doesn’t want to push.
“That’s not fair to you, kid,” he says softly, almost whispering. “You shouldn’t have to stay with someone because you think you can’t do better. You deserve so much better.”
Her gaze flicks up to him, beautiful brown eyes scanning his face. “I… I know that,” she admits sheepishly. “I just… he… he’s never really noticed me or understood me. Definitely not like you do.” Her voice wavers a little bit at the last few words. She huffs a little, embarrassed by how honest she’s being.
Jack tries to smother the smile that threatens to crawl across his face. “I don’t just notice you, sweetheart. I’d memorize the whole world if it meant knowing you better.”
She bites her lip and looks at him. A small, almost guilty laugh slips out. “You don’t really mean that, but I appreciate the sentiment.” Jack shakes his head.
“I mean it. I’d do whatever it is you want. He’s a fool for doing otherwise.”
Her shoulders relax a fraction and she exhales slowly, playing with a perfect little ringlet of her hair by her ear. “I’ve just… I don’t know how to ask for that,” she admits, voice still soft. “I feel like I’m always making excuses, making myself easy to deal with so people don’t leave.”
Thank god they’re at a red light, because Jack can’t stop himself from looking at her. The corners of her pretty lips are turned down. Her lashes cast faint shadows against her cheeks and her eyes are a little wet with tears. She looks smaller like this– softer, almost fragile.
“Samira,” he says quietly. She glances up. “You don’t have to be easy to keep,” Jack says. “Anybody worth stayin’ would fight to.” Her breath catches a little before returning to her normal rate. The light turns green and he looks back at the road before he can say too much.
“You make it sound simple,” she says finally.
“It is,” he answers matter-of-factly.
She shakes her head faintly. “It’s not, though. What if I’m just… a lot?”
Jack almost laughs, disbelieving. “You are.” Her head snaps towards him.
“You’re a lot. You’re sharp and stubborn and you don’t know when to quit. You care too damn much. You think too fast and don’t know how to turn it off. You feel everything so deeply.” He glances at her. “And I think anyone who can’t handle that doesn’t deserve the privilege of being in your life.”
She swallows again. “You don’t get tired of it?”
“Of what?”
“Me.” Her voice sounds so small. Does Garrett ever even tell her how smart she is?
Jack’s grip tightens on the wheel. “Never. I could watch you think all day and not get bored.”
She looks away and her shoulders loosen slowly, something in her unclenched. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” she murmurs.
“Why?”
“I might start believing you.”
“Maybe you should.”
After that, the quiet surrounding them changes. It’s not tense anymore; heavy and full in a different way. The warmth in the truck finally catches up to her and the adrenaline from the shift drains out of her system. Her head tips back against the headrest.
“You can sleep, sweetheart,” he says gently.
“I’m fine.” Samira insists, but her eyes are already drifting shut. Within minutes, she’s out like a light.
She curls towards the passenger door, knees angled slightly in, arms tucked close to her chest. Her shoulder leans against the cold, condensated glass instead of toward him. His girl is making herself smaller, trying not to take up space in his truck.
Jack’s jaw works once. He eases his foot off the gas slightly, smoothing the ride. He watches the sky shift from indigo to pale gold. Sunlight spills through the windshield and catches in her dark curls, lighting them up like a halo. They glow red-amber, soft, and wild around her face. A few strands brush her cheek, rising and falling with her breath.
He’s seen this woman fierce, focused, covered in someone else’s blood and steady as a damn rock. But now, sitting in the passenger seat of his car in the sunrise, she looks holy. Unarmored and her brain finally quiet. He really wants to brush that curl back; tuck it behind her ear and tell her she doesn’t have to fold in on herself anymore.
Instead, he adjusts the heat so it blows gently towards her side and keeps driving.
It’s been a few weeks since their conversation in the truck. Jack doesn’t realize he’s looking for her until he notices she isn’t at her locker. Her black backpack and navy coat are still, too. The rest of the floor is thinning out, day shift filtering in, monitors humming steadily in the background. He tells himself she’s in the bathroom. Or grabbing water. Or finally hiding from him because of their conversation in the truck.
He sees the stairwell door cracked open. He hears crying—not loud or dramatic, just the broken arrhythmia of someone trying not to make noise. He pushes the door open carefully. The stairwell smells faintly like disinfectant and concrete dust. The fluorescent lights are buzzing overhead and Samira is sitting halfway up the steps, elbows on her knees, both hands pressed hard against her face like she’s trying to physically hold herself together. Her shoulders are shaking.
For a moment, he just stands there, stunned by the sight of her undone. Samira is composed even when chaos explodes around her. He’s watched her keep a steady voice while blood pooled at her boots. He’s watched her comfort grieving families without a tremor or a waver in her face. Seeing her like this—small and folded in—does something unpleasant in his chest.
“Samira,” he says quietly.
She startles, she definitely hadn’t expected to be found. Her hands drop too quickly from her face. She swipes at her cheeks, embarrassed, smudging at the brown mascara around her eyes, and inhales sharply like she can force the tears back inside.
“I’m fine,” she says, but her voice fractures halfway through.
Jack steps inside and lets the door close behind him. The click echoes in the narrow space. He doesn’t crowd her, just lowers himself onto the step next to her instead. He tries not to think about the way their knees are nearly touching.
“You don’t look fine, kid,” he says. She stares at the concrete between her shoes. Her lashes are wet, nose pink, and rose-colored lips now red and wet. She looks exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with the very rough shift they just finished up.
“It’s stupid,” she mutters.
“It’s not.”
Her fingers twist together in her lap until her knuckles pale. She takes a breath that vibrates deep in her chest and doesn’t quite settle. A few minutes pass before she says anything, but he’s patient.
“We were supposed to get dinner tonight,” she says finally. “I told him I was tired and asked if he could just come over instead.” Her mouth tightens, trying to prevent her lip from quivering. “He said I make everything too difficult.”
Jack goes so still.
She laughs under her breath, brittle and self-conscious. “He said I’m exhausting sometimes. That I’m intense. That not everything has to be some big emotional conversation.” Each word sounds like it scraped out part of her intestines on the way out.
“I asked him what that even meant,” she continues, voice trembling. “And he just got quiet. Like I was asking for too much. Like I always am.”
He can hear the wetness in her voice. Jack’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“I just wanted him to say he missed me,” she whispers. “Or that he was proud of me. Or that he cares that I’m tired.” Her shoulders cave inward, bracing for the impact that’s already happened.
“I don’t want to be hard to love,” she says, and that’s when her composure finally breaks. Tears spill freely now, no longer wiped away quickly. “I try so hard not to be.”
He can’t contain himself, reaching for her before he fully thinks it through. He laces their fingers and pulls gently, guiding her toward him until her balance tips and she has no choice but to shift closer. The movement is deliberate and unhurried, and when she resists for half a second out of instinct, his hand tightens just enough to steady her. Jack draws her fully into his lap, settling her sideways across his thighs, one arm braced solidly around her waist.
“Samira,” he says in a whisper. She looks up at him. Her face is soaked. Mascara smudged faintly under eyes, lips swollen and trembling. Her breath is hitching every few seconds like her body hasn’t decided whether it’s done crying. She looks fucking wrecked and the sight of her sitting in his lap like this sends a hot, dizzying rush straight through him. She has never looked more beautiful.
Her curls brush against his jaw when she shifts, and Jack inhales before he can stop himself—she smells like antiseptic, but he can faintly smell her shampoo. Citrus and jasmine tea and cedar. He can feel the warmth of her through her scrubs, the small weight of her settling instinctively against his chest and in the crook of his neck. She fits there so easily, like she was meant to be gathered up by him.
His hand moves to her back, broad palm spanning the curve of her spine, fingers splayed possessively at her waist. The other slides up into her curls at the nape of her neck, cradling her head with a steadiness that borders on reverent. He tips her face up again, a little too roughly.
“You listen to me,” he says, voice low and rough. “You are not hard to love.”
A tear spills over immediately, tracing down the curve of her cheek. He wipes it away with his thumb, letting his knuckle brush the softness of her mouth. Her lips part on a shaky inhale, and the sigh of it makes his pulse throb hard in his mouth. All he wants to do is kiss her, taste the salt and heat of her tear-stained face, feeling that pretty trembling mouth soften under his. He can see how easily she would melt and how her hands would slide higher on his chest instead of fisting at his shirt like they are now.
Jack forces himself to swallow the thought.
“If a man thinks you’re too much,” he continues, thumb resting lightly at the corner of her lip, “it’s because he doesn’t know how to rise to meet you.” His knee shifts beneath her, grounding her more firmly against him, and she exhales like she feels safer for it. “You don’t shrink yourself to make somebody comfortable. You don’t beg to be missed. You’re Samira—brilliant ER doctor, kindest girl in the world, and the most beautiful, too.”
She presses closer without realizing she’s doing it, her forehead dipping toward his collarbone, fingers gripping his shirt as if he might disappear if she doesn’t grab hard enough. He tightens his arm around her waist in response.
“You want somethin’ simple?” He murmurs into her hair. “Stop asking him to give you what he clearly doesn’t want to give. You say what you need once, clearly. If he doesn’t step up, you walk away. Don’t make yourself smaller so somebody mediocre can feel bigger.”
Samira’s breathing steadies gradually, though she still trembles against him. He feels every small shift of her body, every shallow inhale, and it sends a slow, heavy heat through him that he fights to keep firmly leashed. An image flashes in Jack’s head—her straddling him instead of sitting sideways, her tear-streaked face tilted down for a very different kind of kiss, with her softness unfolding under his hands instead of collapsing from hurt.
He presses his cheek to the top of her head instead.
“You are going to be loved,” Jack says quietly, gruff and certain. “Properly. Like you deserve, angel. By someone who’s so damn grateful for you.” That tears a small sob out of her, and he holds her even tighter.
After she settles and the worst of the crying softens into exhaustion, he keeps his arm around her and lets the silence do the work. The hospital parking lot has emptied, the night shift long since swallowed by morning, and the sky has already begun to pale at the horizon. When he finally guides her toward his truck, it is not rushed. He opens the passenger door for her and waits until she is seated before buckling her in and closing the door, as if even the sound might be too much. The drive is calm and unhurried. She leans her head against the window at first, then gradually angles toward him, the distance between them shrinking by instinct rather than intention. He keeps one hand steady on the wheel and the other resting open on the center console. After a few minutes, she places her head in his without looking at him, and he closes his fingers around hers, firm and warm.
When he pulls up outside her apartment, she looks up at the building with visible reluctance. Jack sees it immediately, and suddenly the thought of her climbing those stairs along and sitting in the quiet, sits wrong in his chest.
“You’re not going up there tonight,” he says, calm but decisive.
She blinks at him. “Jack.”
“You need sleep. You need to eat. You need someone who isn’t going to make you feel small.” His voice softens slightly. “Come back to my place.”
She studies him carefully, searching for any ulterior motive, and whatever she finds in his expression seems to settle her. She nods once. He doesn’t smile, but relief moves through him all the same.
His apartment is clean in a way that he keeps as a habit rather than showmanship. The lights are low, the air faintly scented with cedar and clean laundry. She just stands inside the doorway for a moment, uncertain, still wrapped in the emotional exhaustion of the night. He touches her elbow lightly and guides her farther in.
“Sit down,” he says gently, gesturing toward the couch. “Sit, I’ll take your shoes and jacket off.” He kneels and slides her sneakers off for her and hangs up her jacket without a word. He disappears down the hallway and starts the bath without fanfare. He adjusts the temperature carefully, testing it twice, and adds a measured pour of eucalyptus soak before letting the tub fill. Steam gathers against the mirror, softening the edges of the room. Jack even sets out a thick towel and one of his softer washcloths within reach.
When he returns to the living room, Samira is curled slightly in on herself—hands clasped loosely in her lap, knees tucked in. He kneels in front of her so that they are at eye level.
“Bath’s ready, baby,” he says. “Take all the time you need.”
Her expression shifts, surprise flicking across her face. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” he replies.
She disappears down the hallway after an encouraging tap on the shin. He forces himself to remain in the kitchen instead of picturing her lowering into the water. He orders Chinese takeout from the place he knows is weirdly open in the morning, choosing dishes he suspects she will actually eat rather than pick at. Sesame chicken, vegetable lo mein, egg drop soup, dumplings—enough for her to have options; enough so she can’t say there was nothing she wanted.
While he waits, he moves into his bedroom and pulls open a drawer. He selects an old gray Army t-shirt, worn thin and soft with age, and a pair of navy sweats that will sit comfortably on her hips without slipping. He pauses for a moment with the shirt in his hands, imagining the fabric hanging loosely from her shoulders. The thought tightens something low in his stomach and he forces an exhale before carrying them to the bathroom door.
She emerges, still dressed, her hair a little frizzy and cheeks a little flushed from the heat. He hands her the clothes, simply saying, “These’ll be more comfortable.”
When she eventually emerges from her bath, stepping into the living room wearing his sweats, he has to look away briefly to steady himself. Her hair is wet and combed back, the shirt drapes over her frame, the neckline slipping just enough to reveal the curve of her collarbone. The sweats sit low on her waist, cinched loosely. She looks soft and warm and like she’s his, even though she is not.
“Feelin’ better?” he asks, keeping his tone even.
“Yes,” she sighs out. “A lot better.”
The food arrives soon after. He plates it instead of handing her the cartons—scoops the rice onto her plate, pours her soup into a bowl, and places a glass of water beside her without asking. He eats at the same pace as her, nudging the dumplings closer as she eats more. When her water dips below half, he refills it automatically.
“You don’t have to babysit me like that,” she murmurs, a faint playful smile tugging at her mouth.
“I’m making sure you eat,” he defends. He doesn’t sigh or complain. This is heaven.
After dinner, he cleans up while she sits on the couch beneath a blanket he drapes over her lap without comment. The air is a little thicker now as he comes to sit beside her but not touching, forearms braced against his knees, hands clasped loosely between them.
“This is a bad idea,” she says softly, though she does not move away.
“Yes,” he agrees. Neither of them leaves.
Her fingers toy with the hem of his shirt, drawing it absently across her thigh. He watches for just a fraction too long before dragging his gaze back up to her face.
“You’re still with him,” he says quietly. There is no accusation in it, just fact.
“I know.” Her voice is steady, but her pulse jumps visibly at the base of her throat. “I shouldn’t be here.”
He nods once. “You shouldn’t.” He can see the heat in her gaze now.
“It’s just…” she swallows, searching for the right words. “He makes me feel invisible. And you look at me like…”
“You’re a fucking angel.” He blurts it out so fast, he can hardly believe he said it.
She shifts closer without fully realizing she is doing it. Her knee brushes his thigh again, this time lingering. He goes still immediately, every muscle pulling tight with restraint.
“Samira,” he says, low and warning, but not firm enough to stop her.
“You don’t want this?” she asks, and there is a fragile but real challenge in it.
Jack lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “You have no idea how much I want this.” Fuck, it’s out now. “That’s the problem. You deserve better than this, I don’t want you to make a mistake.”
She leans closer, her hand sliding slowly up his chest, feeling the steady strength beneath his shirt. “It wouldn’t feel like a mistake,” she whispers, looking up at him.
His hand closes around her wrist instinctively, not to stop her but to ground himself. Her skin is finally warm under his palm. He can’t move her hand away.
“You’re upset,” he says, though it sounds weaker now. His head is tilted down at her, she fills his view.
“I’m not confused,” Samira replies. “I know what I’m doing.
He searches her face again, looking for uncertainty, for fragility, for something he can use as an excuse to pull back. Instead he finds resolve and something darker, something that mirrors what is rising in him.
“It’s wrong,” she says softly.
“Yes.”
Her thumb presses lightly against the center of his chest. “That’s what makes it worse.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. He knows exactly what she means. The forbidden edge, the way the risk sharpens everything. The fact that she is not supposed to be here makes the sight of her in his clothes almost unbearable.
“I’m your attending, sweetheart.”
“I know.”
The space between them dissolves inch by inch. He slides one hand up to her jaw, slow and deliberate, giving her time to pull away. She does not. Her breath stutters slightly when his thumb brushes the curve beneath her ear and his other hand reaches her waist.
“This doesn’t happen,” Jack says quietly, gaze locked on her big brown eyes. She’s so perfect. “Not if you’re going to regret it tomorrow.”
“I won’t,” she says eagerly, zero hesitation in her voice.
He studies her for one final second, then leans in, stopping just short of her mouth. He gives her the choice, always.
She closes the distance.
The kiss isn’t frantic. It is slow at first, testing, almost restrained. But the restraint cracks quickly. The heat that has been simmering all night surges forward, and suddenly the fact that this is complicated only makes it burn hotter. His hand slides from her jaw into her damp hair, steady and possessive. Her fingers curl into the front of his shirt harder.
They break apart briefly, breathing uneven.
“We can still stop,” Jack says, though his voice has dropped lower, rougher.
She shakes her head once, eyes dark. “Do you want to?”
Somewhere in the back of both their minds, there is the awareness that lines are being crossed. That consequences exist and that this changes things. But in the present moment, none of it is strong enough to compete with the way they fit. Her body is softening into his with the way he handles her like something precious and powerful simultaneously.
He initiates the kiss, deeper this time, his hand sliding down her waist to grip her hip and pull her fully into his lap. She makes a soft noise against his mouth—half protest, half plea—arching into him as his other hand stays tangled in her hair.
“Christ,” Jack mutters when they finally break apart again, his breath uneven. Her lips are brighter pink and swollen, her pupils blown wide, her throat bobbing as she swallows heavily. He brushes his thumb over her cheekbone, marveling at the heat of her skin. “Look at you, Samira.”
She squirms, pressing closer, her fingers digging into the front of his shirt and his shoulder. “Don’t just look,” she whines, her voice thick with want. He laughs a little, low and rough, and kisses her again. It’s slow and filthy this time, until she’s panting. When he pulls back, her eyelashes flutter and her chest is rising fast. How is he so lucky to have her here, like this? She’s an angel in his arms, warm and pliant and perfect.
With a grunt, he stands, lifting her. Her legs wrap around his waist automatically, her laughter breathless against his neck as he carries her toward the bedroom. He lays her down gently on the bed and she scoots back against the pillow. Her dark curls are splayed along the pillow, framing her like a halo. Jack stands up, lifting his shirt over his head. She watches and doesn’t even try to hide it. Her eyes move slowly—chest, shoulders, stomach—like she’s memorizing him. She swallows as her fingers curl into the sheets just slightly.
“You’re staring, pretty baby,” he murmurs with a crooked little smile. She blushes a little before reaching for the hem of her shirt, but Jack shakes his head quickly. “Leave it on. Want to see you in my shirt while I touch you,” his voice drops at thought. His fingers make quick work of his prosthetic, unbuckling it with practiced ease and sliding the sleeve off before leaning it against the bed. Then, he’s crawling over to her, his weight pressing her into the mattress as his mouth finds her again.
She melts beneath him, her hands roaming his back, his arms, everywhere she can reach. His kisses trailed down her throat, teeth scraping over her pulse point before sucking a light bruise into the soft skin of her shoulder. Her breath hitches, her hips jerking up against nothing.
“So sweet for me,” Jack murmurs against her collarbone, pushing her shirt up to expose her chest. His thumbs brush over her nipples, pinching lightly and playing with them. Her back arches off the bed with a gasp. “So fucking perfect.”
Samira whimpers, her fingers twisting in the sheets. “Please–”
He nips at her earlobe. “You just gonna beg for anything, sweet thing? Use your words, use that big, smart brain of yours.”
She whines again, embarrassed. “I want your mouth.”
He swirls his tongue around her nipple. “Like this?”
Samira huffs, stifling a moan, frustration and arousal warring in her expression, before finally gritting out, “I want it… down there.”
“So shy… I don’t know what you’re talking about. You can do it, Samira.”
“I want you to eat me out! Please.”
He grins, kissing the corner of her mouth. “Good girl,” he coos. “My smart girl knows how to ask for things.” His hands slide down to her waistband, tugging her sweats down her hips as he kisses down her stomach. The sharp angles of her hipbones are irresistible—he kisses each one messily, his lips lingering, possessive. Then lower, his tongue tracing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh while his finger circles her clit, slow and teasing. She jerks a little, a broken noise escaping her throat.
“Fuck,” he breathes out heavy, closing his eyes as he hooks her leg over his shoulder and kisses down her knee towards her ankle. “Look at you.”
The first lick is low, deliberate, his tongue dragging through her folds with a reverence that made her toes curl into the sheets. Jack groans against her, the vibration sending a shudder up her spine. “Shit, sweetheart, look at how wet you are for me…” he muttered, in awe of her, his breath hot against her skin before diving back in, his mouth sealing over her clit with a filthy, wet sound. Her hips jerked, but his grip on her thigh tightened, holding her in place.
“Easy, pretty baby,” he murmured, lifting his head just enough to meet her dazed gaze. “I’ve gotcha.”
He takes his time, alternating between broad, languid strokes and quick, focused flicks of his tongue, each movement calculated to wring another broken noise from her throat. His free hand slides up her stomach, fingers tracking the dip of her waist before palming over her breast, his thumb rolling her nipple in time with the rhythm of his mouth. She writhes, her fingers fisting in his hair—not pulling, just clinging, as if she might float away otherwise.
“Jack… fuck!” His name dissolves into a whine as his tongue circles her clit, the pressure just shy of too much.
“Tell me,” he rasps, lifting his head just enough to speak, his lips glistening with her. “Your boyfriend ever make you feel like this?” His thumb presses harder against her nipple, his other hand slipping lower to tease her entrance, not quite pushing inside.
She shakes her head frantically, her breath coming in short, sharp pants. “No– never–”
“You sure you’re not just saying this to feed my ego, sweet baby? You really mean it?” He slips a finger inside of her, sliding sloppily.
Samira pulls his hair a little and nods. “I promise, Jack, I swear. He’s never even made me cum.”
Jack is determined to do just that and he ducks back down, sucking her clit into his mouth with a hunger that makes her back arch off the bed. His finger slides out to tangle in the dark curls between her thighs, tugging gently—just enough to make her gasp—before spreading her wider.
“Love this,” he mutters against her skin, his voice rough. “Love your hair here. Love how fucking messy you get for me.”
She whimpers, her thighs trembling around his head as he works her over, his tongue relentless. Every flick, every suck is a slow, torturous build, each one pushing her closer to the edge only to ease off at the last second, leaving her gasping. “Jack, please–”
“Please what?” He nips at her inner thigh hard, his breath hot. “You wanna cum, sweet thing?”
She nods desperately, her nails scraping against his scalp.
“Say it.”
“I wanna cum,” she begs, her voice cracking. “Please, on your face, let me–”
His mouth crashes back onto her, his tongue fucking into her in quick, shallow thrusts while his thumb circles her clit in tight, dizzying circles. She comes with a sob, her entire body seizing, her legs clamping tightly as he rides her through it, his grip bruising on her hip. “That’s it,” he spits out, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Let go, angel. Fuck, you’re beautiful.”
Her vision whites out, her cries being muffled by her own arm thrown over her face. He doesn’t stop until she’s squirming, oversensitive, her hands weakly pushing at his shoulders. Only then does he pull back, pressing a final, lingering kiss to the inside of her thigh before crawling up her body, his chest heaving. He cupped her face, his thumb swiping at the tears clinging to her lashes.
He kisses her, slow and syrupy, his tongue sliding against hers as she tastes herself on his lips. Jack's fingers stroke through her hair, gentle, reverent, as if he could coax her back to earth with just his touch. Her body is still trembling with the tingling, overstimulating numbness of an orgasm, her thighs slick and sticky where they pressed against his hips. He groans into her mouth, his cock throbbing against her thigh, still trapped in his sweats and hot and heavy with neglect. She whimpers when he pulls back, her wet lashes fluttering open to find his gaze already locked onto her, dark and hungry.
“We can stop,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing the curve of her bitten-raw bottom lip. “If you’re having second thoughts–”
“No.” Her fingers dig into his biceps, her voice raw and wet. “Don’t you fucking dare, Jack. I need you inside me so bad.”
He laughs, rough and breathless, before catching her mouth again, kissing her until she was squirming beneath him. “Condom,” he mutters against her lips, already reaching for the nightstand. Samira makes a noise of protest, her hips canting up to rub against him and hand reaching to pull him back, but he catches her wrist.
“I know, baby. But we’re not stupid. I’m clean, but–” His breath hitches as she rolls her hips again, the friction maddening. “Fuck– but Garrett.”
“I use one with him. I don’t want Garrett to have this,” she hisses, her nails scraping down his chest. “Just you.”
He groans, dropping his forehead to hers as he shuffles his jeans off and rolls the condom on, his fingers unsteady. “Christ, you’re gonna kill me, angel. We can talk about it later, yeah?”
Samira pouts and gives him these eyes that make him want to give in so bad—more than he already does—but he stays strong. She nods and then kisses him again. “Okay…”
He lines himself up and looks at her again, just to check that she’s okay, and he’s pushing into her, slow, so fucking slow, his eyes locked on hers as she gasps and eyes squeeze shut. “Look at you,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Taking me so goddamn good.”
Her legs hook around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he swears, his hips stuttering. “Perfect,” he mutters, dragging his lips along her jaw. “So fucking perfect.” Jack’s thrusts are slow, deliberate, each one drawing a broken noise from her throat. “Tell me,” he demands, his breath hot against her ear. “Tell me how smart you are. How fucking beautiful. Tell me you deserve anything you want.”
She keens, her hands scrambling for purchase on his back. “Jack, I–”
“Say it. C’mon, you’re so good with your words, pretty girl. I know you can do it.”
“I’m smart,” she gasps, hips rolling up to meet him. “I’m… I’m beautiful. I deserve– fuck– I deserve everything.”
He can’t stop the growl the comes out of him, his teeth sinking into her shoulder as he fucks into her harder. “Damn right you are.”
Her mouth finds his collarbone, her teeth scraping over the skin before she sucks a bruise into the hollow of his throat. He hisses, his fingers tangling in her hair to drag her head back.
She gins, wicked and unrepentant, before latching onto his fingers when he brushes them against her lips. He groans watching her suck them into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the digits with a filthy, wet sound. “Jesus,” he mutters, his hips snapping forward, the slap of skin echoing in the room. “Look at you.” He tightens the grip in her hair, tilting her head down slightly. “Look how good you take me.”
Her breath hitches, her eyes fluttering shut for a second before she forces them open, her gaze dropping to where their bodies are joined. He thrusts deep, holding himself there, letting her see the way she stretches around him, then pulls out again. “Fuck,” she garbles, her voice trembling with fingers still in her mouth.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, pretty baby. Just like that.” He starts moving again, pace relentless now, each snap of his hips wringing another desperate noise from her throat.
She arches beneath him, her breath coming in ragged gasps, before she’s twisting underneath him. For a second, he pulls out and his stomach drops thinking she’s trying to escape. Instead, she flips onto her stomach, with a desperate, wordless urgency. Her hips lift in silent offering, her ass pressing back against him, her face half-buried in the pillows. She is a fucking sight, and the surrender of it all punches the air from his lungs.
Jack hesitates, taking one of her cheeks in his hand and pulling it away to stare at her dripping center. She’s so fucking perfect. He guides himself back into her, and in one rough motion, his cock is sheathed inside her to the hilt. She cries out, muffled against the pillow, her fingers clawing at the mattress.
“Fuck,” he rasps, his mouth finding the sharp angle of her shoulder. He bites down—not enough to break skin, but enough to make her sob. “This what you needed, sweet thing? Hm? Needed me to take you like this?” His voice was raw, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he fucked into her with slow, brutal strokes.
Samira nods frantically, her hair sticking to her damp forehead as she tilts her head back to look at him. The sight of her: lips parted, eyes glassy with tears, her throat bared, nearly undoes him. He groans, his hand sliding under her to rub her clit in rough, uneven circles. Her back arches further, her cunt clamping around him, her breathing hitching in hard little ‘ah, ah, ah’s with every punishing thrust. Tears streak down her cheeks, her lashes clumped together, and the sight of it sends a vicious thrill through him.
“Crying ‘cause it’s too much?” He asks, his voice thick. “Or ‘cause you love it?”
“Both,” she chokes out, voice almost gone. “Both, both, both–” she chants.
He redoubles his efforts, his fingers working her clit relentlessly as his hips snap forward. “C’mon, baby, I know you got one more in there for me. My beautiful, smart girl.” He spews praise as she comes with a shattered cry, walls of her cunt fluttering around him, thighs trembling. He didn’t let up, fucking her through it, his own release coiling tight in his gut.
At the last second, he pulls out and tears the condom off before pressing his cock between her ass cheeks. His cum streaks hot and messy over her skin, a few stray spurts landing on the hem of her rumpled shirt, still bunched around her waist. The sigh of it makes his pulse stutter.
She collapses onto the mattress, boneless and spent, her breath coming in shallow pants. Jack rolls onto his side, dragging her against his chest, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her hip. The heat of his body settles around her like a shield. Her skin is flushed, damp with sweat, her hair a tangled mess. She blinks up at him, her eyes still wet, her lower lip caught between her teeth. He kisses her, slow and deep, tasting salt and the faint metallic tang of blood where she’d bitten down too hard.
"You," he murmurs against her mouth, “are perfect.”
She smiles lazily, completely sated. Her fingers trail down his chest. “You love it, don’t you?”
He catches her wrist, pressing a kiss to her pulse point. “Yeah,” he admits proudly, “I do.” He brushes a slow kiss over her lips.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, pretty baby,” he says, tugging at the hem of her shirt. She lets him, too spent to protest, and he peels it off of her slowly. “So messy,” he teases, kissing her collarbone.
The shower is hot, steam curling around them. Jack holds her close, hands gliding over her damp curves, fingers tangling in her hair. He soaps her body with slow, gentle movements, murmuring low praises that make her chest flutter. He asks her if anything hurts. Every now and then he says something silly that makes her laugh, wet and breathless, curling her fingers into his broad shoulders.
“You were… amazing,” he says, after they step out of the shower and he wraps a bathrobe around her. He traces a few circles on her shoulder. “Smart, strong, beautiful girl. Perfect.” She flushes and nuzzles into his chest, letting the words sink in.
He wraps her hair in a towel and leads her back to bed, making sure to get her comfortable under all the blankets. Jack runs to the kitchen quickly, grabbing a glass of cold water and a little white ceramic bowl full of raspberries. He places it in her lap, kissing her forehead.
Jack’s gaze drifts over her as she nestles against him, tangled in the sheets, his oversized shirt hanging off her shoulders and damp, dark curls splayed across the pillow like a halo. Every line of her body, the curve of her waist, the soft swell of her hips pressed against his, makes his chest tighten. The faint sheen of sweat on her skin catches the morning light, and he swears he can memorize every freckle, every tiny rise and dip.
“We should… talk about it.” She says, matter-of-factly.
Jack settles back beside her, one arm draped around her waist, thumb brushing circles along her hip. He watches her for a beat, eyes dark with amusement. “Oh?” he asks, teasing. “Talking? Are you analyzing our little… indiscretion?”
Her mouth turns up a little at that, fingers idly popping a raspberry into her mouth. “It’s not an indiscretion. It’s a… calculated moral transgression,” she says, voice crisp and soft. “Technically, ethically, socially… not great on our part. But functionally?” She shrugs. “We knew what we were doing.”
Jack laughs, shaking his head, leaning down to press a quick kiss against her temple. “What, are you writing a case study on me? You know I love it when you talk doctor to me.”
“Maybe I am,” she replies, eyebrow arching, teasing him back. “I’ll quantify all the emotional, physical, and neurological outcomes. I bet they’re all very favorable.”
“You’ll have to send that one to me, I might be a good co-author.” He laughs again, squeezing her closer. “Seriously though… you really mean it, don’t you? About this?”
“I do,” she says simply. Eyes steady on his. “It’s not… ideal in the conventional sense. But it’s exactly what I wanted.”
Jack chuckles against her skin. “Good. Because I’d do it all again in a heartbeat, sweetheart.” He kisses her hairline, letting the warmth of his chest press into her.
Samira tilts her head, a small, amused smile tugging at her lips. “Good. Because I would too.” She curls a little tighter against him.
“Plus,” he adds, mock-serious. “We work in the emergency department. I think our lives would be a little too boring for us without something complicated like this.”
She shakes her head, then leans up to give a quick kiss on the cheek. “It’s not complicated, being cared for. You make it really simple.”
Samira’s a fast learner.